A Conversation with Fleming
by scarlettbees
Summary: A one-shot scene meant to be read in context with "Progression." A quiet grooming session evolves into a conversation between Darcy and his valet, Fleming, on the afternoon of the climactic Almack's ball.


Darcy, as usual, sat in silence as Fleming cut his hair, an occupation performed the first Wednesday of every month. Normally, the shave came first, then the trim, before helping the master dress for the day, all achieved with barely a word spoken between the two men. It was Fleming, not Darcy, who rigidly stuck to this routine; for whenever Darcy attempted to postpone it, his valet would somehow have a mentally prepared list of reasons why the grooming schedule must be adhered to for the sake of everything else planned for that day. Darcy rarely argued or exacted his authority in such cases, knowing deep down that his man was correct, and that those in his employ were and had always been the best manager of his calendar, despite the perpetual boredom in following it so precisely for so many years.

Darcy often used his time in the chair to nap; but this particular Wednesday afternoon, the day of the Almack's ball, kept him fully awake in his continual frustration over the situation with Elizabeth and the popular opinion of her in Town as an "eccentric," the word Lord Thornhaugh had used at the club and Bingley, along with Lord Ashbourne, all but verified. Then, during their fencing match just this morning, Thornhaugh had made plain the narrative Darcy had been stubbornly ignoring since it was first brought to his attention by Lady Matlock, that he himself held his marriage in contempt, and regarded his wife as only an object of sensual pleasure, rather than a viable partner and worthy mistress to his estates. Darcy was forced to accept that this wretched and false opinion could very well impact the life of his child as yet to be born, who could grow up regarded as a "half-breed," despite Elizabeth being a gentleman's daughter, and consequently rejected by Society. His mulling over the matter had caused an involuntary contortion of his features, to which Fleming reminded the master to relax his face lest it suffer possible damage from the straight razor.

Darcy did as instructed so his man could finish the shave without incident; but the scowl returned in the course of his hair-trimming as another thought occurred to him.

"Fleming," he said, "do you recall my wishes expressed to you on my wedding night?"

"Yes, Sir," answered Fleming without breaking his stride.

Town gossip was a leisurely activity, like hunting, with the potential to do as much damage, in the social sense, to its prey. Darcy knew this as well as anyone, and also knew that servants often played an immense part in the perpetuation of certain rumors, allowing for the "disease" to spread into a veritable plague that only died off when the next delicious tale emerged from the lips of their employers, or one of their own. Roles were exchanged between the two castes, the Beau Monde at times the fleas with servants as mere rats. And sometimes the parts were reversed.

"And I am sure you did as I asked," Darcy continued. "Correct?"

"Correct, sir," replied Fleming. "I told everyone that Mrs. Darcy was treasured by the master, and that any speculation to the contrary would not be tolerated."

"By _my_ order?"

"By your order, Sir."

This frustrated Darcy even more. With the raising of his hand, he bid Fleming lower his scissors, and looked his man square in the eye.

"Then my true feelings are well understood by my staff. Yet what is factual has apparently failed to reach beyond these premises to other servants in Town, whilst false rumors continue to run rampant with no correction by those in my employ. Why?"

"'Tis from no lack of correction, Sir, I assure you—but a failure to convince."

Darcy struggled with this answer. "Understand, Fleming. I do not consider it your responsibility, nor anyone else's, to _convince_ Society that I love my wife."

"No, Sir."

"I merely wish to comprehend why my own words held no power—indeed, withered away in the rotation of daily gossip shared amongst peers and servants alike; whereas what is pure fiction has thrived, gained momentum, and is now fully accepted and acknowledged as fact. What is your opinion on this, Fleming?"

"Mine, sir?"

"Yes."

The man appeared stunned that his view on the matter was in any way valued, far less requested, by the master, who but two years ago could never have fathomed this conversation, but was now willing to listen to just about anyone if it may bring him closer to resolving his quandary. Although an inferior, Fleming was no simpleton, and by profession a routine observer of both the upper and lower classes. Why not ask his thoughts on the matter? They may very well prove helpful. Darcy motioned for his valet to take a seat in the chair against the wall, and repeated his question. Fleming considered carefully before answering.

"Throughout the years, I have noted, Sir, that the art of gossip, by its very nature, is a diversion which serves to gratify, to stimulate— rather than to inform," he said. "In my opinion, Sir, the truth, like any tale, is not believed unless it is felt."

His man's reply made Darcy think back to his Hertfordshire days when he was perceived by most to be a proud, arrogant, disagreeable individual. Elizabeth had laughed at him, had made sport of him with her friends, at the Meryton assembly. More prattle and misconception would follow by others in the community, not that he had given a damn at the time; for he had dismissed _them_ much in the same way he himself was dismissed. What was felt was all the "truth" either side required. In terms of Darcy's behavior at that dance so long ago, the truth was but a mere faux pas, a brief absence of manners which snowballed swiftly into a universal perception of him as an intolerable prat as his unpleasant mien (and Wickham's lies) solidified their beliefs. A faux pas can be forgiven when it is immediately acknowledged, and when the perpetrator is better known, or better respected; however, when rumors are left to fester with the passage of time comes a point when no one cares to know the truth, and one is more than content with only what is felt…

"Thank you, Fleming," said Darcy after several moments of silence. "You may continue."

" _We_ feel it, Sir," said the man with a sudden burst of feeling. "The truth, that is. Everyone under this roof! Your family, as well—"

"I meant the hair trimming," interrupted Darcy, taking a quick look at his pocket watch. "Do continue, Fleming. We've not much time."

"Yes, Sir."


End file.
